


Dinner Conversation

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:17:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky is bored in his hospital bed and thinking about food.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner Conversation

"Hutch, what night is the departmental awards dinner?" Starsky asked listlessly, futilely tugging the wrinkles out of the bed sheets.

"Friday. Dobey told me I'm getting a citation for bringing down Gunther." Hutch looked up from the book he'd been reading and examined his partner critically. Starsky had been in the hospital now for just over a month but a recent bout with pneumonia had set his recovery way back. He'd been so sick he'd even earned two days on the ventilator which had scared Hutch immensely. Although he hated seeing that thick plastic tube sticking out of Starsky's mouth and attached to a noisy machine that did all the breathing for him, Hutch had sat by the bed throughout the entire crisis.

Now, Starsky was once again on the mend, but weaker and thinner than ever. His damaged lungs seemed to have to work triple-time to pull in enough oxygen to keep him alive, so Starsky huffed and puffed all day long like a long distance runner never quite making it to the finish line. The doctors called it tachypnea, but privately Hutch termed it "the bellows." Some nights when Hutch dozed off next to the hospital bed, all he had to do was listen for Starsky's harsh, labored breathing and was reassured that his partner still lived. Those bellows worked hard.

"I wish I could see you get that plaque." Starsky's narrow face lit up with a smile.

"So do I." Hutch closed the book, laying it aside. He never got much reading done, but it was good to have near by. He could never quite gauge whether Starsky would be chatty, or too worn out from a day filled with needle sticks, dressing changes and pain to want much company. Tonight, despite a breath rate twice what was normal, Starsky was in the mood to talk.

"What do you think they'll serve for dinner?"

"I dunno, Starsk." Hutch smiled indulgently. "You hungry for something?" He knew Starsky couldn't keep much down. Starsky's stomach had scored a direct hit from one of the assassin's bullets but was supposedly healing well. However, his ability to ingest almost anything even remotely edible was a thing of the past. That, combined with his rapid fire breathing left him too tired to eat much, and what he did eat often returned with a vengeance an hour or so later. Thus, Starsky had developed a connoisseur's delight of food, pouring over the glossy pictures in cooking magazines when he was up to it, or just fantasizing about elaborate meals the rest of the time.

"Steak." Starsky smiled with longing. "With a baked potato on the side drippin' with butter. And those little shrimps on ice with a bowl of spicy cocktail sauce for an appetizer...."

"Sounds better that the dry chicken and mushy vegetables they usually serve at these functions."

"And a hot fudge sundae," Starsky said, warming to his topic. "No, better yet, a banana split with three toppings. Chocolate, pineapple, and strawberry."

"With whipped cream and a cherry on top," Hutch added. He hadn't eaten something that decadent in ages. It sounded heavenly.

"Three cherries and peanuts sprinkled all over it." Starsky scratched at the hard plastic nasal cannula in his nose. "They served it like that at Fenten's in my old neighborhood."

"We had an ice cream fountain called Jerry's in Duluth." Hutch smiled at the memory. "Took Anna Linstrom there on our first date."

"Yeah?" Starsky had to pause to catch his breath, all the talking making him hoarse. "Lemme guess, she was tall and blonde."

"How'd you know?"

"Lucky guess." Starsky chuckled, then gasped, closing his eyes against the obvious pain in his chest. He clutched his left hand into a fist, gripping the sheet so tightly Hutch was certain it would rip.

Without taking his eyes off Starsky, Hutch hit the button to call the nurse. Starsky needed extra pain meds to reduce the strain of his breathing and let him rest. It was agony to watch his struggle to get in oxygen, see the deep indentations under his collarbone as Starsky heaved in air.

"Take it easy, buddy," Hutch murmured, slipping a hand under Starsky's back to help raise him up. The work of breathing was reduced when he was sitting up, but he still had a gray undertone to his skin.

"Don' worry so much, Hu'ch." Starsky gulped air between breaths. Hutch dragged pillows up so Starsky could recline nearly upright and then eased him back gently.

"Can't help it." Hutch smiled gratefully when the matronly black nurse slipped in with a tray full of meds to help the patient. "You give me so much to work with."

"It's a gift," Starsky said, but his voice was muffled as the nurse efficiently strapped on a breathing mask for his aerosol treatment. While he was breathing in the medicated steam, she also changed his IV fluids, added a painkiller straight into the plastic tubing and took his vital signs. Hutch watched in awe, impressed by the woman's impressive multi-tasking skills.

"You get more done in five minutes than he ever did in an hour," he teased. Starsky responded by rolling his eyes over the green breathing mask in mock annoyance.

"Honey, you gotta learn to prioritize 'round here or you never get through ten patients in eight hours sane," she drawled with a smile. "Now, I heard 'bout you two talkin' all night long. That ain't gonna happen when Ol'Mattie's around. David here needs his rest, and so do you, Blondie. You got black bags under those pretty blue eyes bigger'n my nursin' satchel. So when I come back here for late vitals, you'd better be skiddadling on home, you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am." Hutch nearly saluted as she slipped the breathing mask off Starsky, tucked the call button back to one side of the pillow and recorded the vital signs before marching out on white soled shoes.

"She's got your number, Blondie," Starsky teased, but broke it off abruptly with a chesty cough. However, the drugs had done their trick, his voice was stronger and breathing much eased. The morphine had kicked in pretty strongly, too, and he was getting sleepy. Starsky's eyes fluttered closed despite his obvious desire to stay awake.

Hutch smiled, picking up his novel to try to find where he'd left off. He had just managed to read a few paragraphs and get back into the battle for control of Iwo Jima when Starsky spoke again.

"Hey."

"I thought you were asleep."

"I think I was, dreaming," Starsky said wistfully. "Y'know, I never got t'eat any of that linguini with the clam sauce."

"Starsk, that was three years ago." Hutch shuddered at the memory of the horrible night in an Italian restaurant when he'd had to go up against two armed assassins single-handedly after the trigger-happy member of the duo shot Starsky in the back. "You must have eaten it at some point in all this time."

"Nope, I kinda lost the taste for it, y'know? Reminded me..." He gave a breathy little laugh, stinting his left arm against his bandaged chest. "But then this put it all inta perspective," Starsky raised his hand off his chest, waving it languidly at the IV poles, heart monitors and bedpans. "So now I really want some."

This put it all into perspective--now there was the understatement of the year, Hutch thought grimly. Getting two bullets -- one in the back and a crease along the hairline -- rated better than four in the torso any day of the week.

"Yeah, I guess you have a point." Hutch shook his head ruefully. "Sorry to report I don't have a ready source for linguini with clams, especially since that place went out of business, but I think there's still grape popsicles out at the nurses's station in the fridge."

"Nope."

"An ice cream cup? That pretty nurse you like...."

"April," Starsky supplied, watching him with both eyes at half-mast like he was in danger of falling asleep any second but the conversation was too stimulating to let him.

"April said she had a hidden stash of chocolate sauce. We could pretend it was a banana split."

"Nah, got my mouth all set for linguini," Starsky muttered sleepily. "And vino de casa."

"House wine." Hutch had to fight the sudden urge to cry. Linguini with da clams, said in Starsky's broadest Brooklynese echoed in his head. Starsky just wanted a better time than the here and now. A time when, even though he'd been shot, he'd had a small hand in catching the bad guys and had pretty much recovered from his wounds a month after the shooting. This time around, he wasn't even able to get out of bed on his own one month later. He'd totally missed out on the arrest of Gunther and the other assassins had never been identified. They'd either fled the country that same dreadful day in May, or been killed shortly after Starsky was gunned down. At least Hutch was hoping for the latter.

This coming Friday, Hutch was to receive a medal and commendation from the mayor for his part in the apprehension of Gunther, and Starsky would be given Bay City Police Department's version of the Purple Heart for bravery under fire. Except, of course, he couldn't attend. In the end, that was probably why Starsky was yearning for the good ol' bad, ol' days. It had to be fairly devastating to the psyche to receive a medal for bravery when he couldn't even stand up tall in front of his peers to have it pinned on.

"Aw, Starsk," Hutch said softly to the sleeping man in the hospital bed. "I'd bring you the linguini if it would change things."

++++++++++++++

"Starsky," Hutch called softly, leaning over the bed to brush a curl off Starsky's forehead. It had the intended result of tickling Starsky awake.

"Huh?" Starsky struggled out of a morphine-induced sleep, trying to focus his eyes on the blue apparition in front of him. He hitched a shallow breath, getting his usual super-charged breath rate under marginal control. Who was this cop in regulation blues who sounded a lot like Hutch? Who even looked a lot like Hutch, with the blond hair and blue eyes? "Hu'ch? Whatcha doin' back in uniform? Dobey put you back on traffic duty?"

"No, dummy." Hutch smiled affectionately. "It's Friday, remember?"

"Yeah, Friday. I walked across the room t'day, didja see it?" Starsky's wits were returning to him at last and he grinned with pride over his most recent accomplishment. The walk had been a huge boost to his self-worth, even though it had brought with it renewed agony from damaged muscles and an extra dose of morphine at bedtime, which was why he was so dopey. "Without the stupid walker."

"I saw, Starsk." Hutch nodded. "But it's nine o'clock at night. I just came by with a couple of friends to see you."

"It's after visiting hours." Starsky pushed himself up in the bed, examining Hutch more closely. He had to pant a few breaths to ride out a wave of pain that lanced across his ribcage, but it was mercifully brief. Hutch had several small ribbons and medals pinned to his uniform jacket. Starsky recognized two of them from long ago, one for saving the life of a drowning child who just happened to be the mayor's daughter, and the other for meritorious service above and beyond the call of duty. Starsky had an identical one buried somewhere in his jewelry box at home, awarded for the time they'd both had to fight to prevent the outbreak of the plague. Most of Hutch's battle had been from a hospital bed, but Starsky had always felt Hutch deserved the medal far more than he had. However, two new medals adorned Hutch's coat, and Starsky caught his breath. "The awards dinner. I thought you were just getting a plaque."

"I did, and medals." Hutch blushed slightly, opening the bedside table drawer, "Now we haven't got much time. The nurse out there only gave my friends about fifteen minutes. So can you comb your hair while I scare up a washrag for you?"

"What's this about?" Starsky did as he was told; dragging the comb through his unruly locks until the action caused his arm to ache too badly. Hutch handed over a washcloth, waiting while Starsky took a couple of swipes over his face, and then dug a blue coat out of a gym bag he'd brought into the room unnoticed.

"What's all this?" Starsky looked over at Hutch suspiciously.

"Your uniform. Getting shot really has addled your brain, hasn't it?" Hutch held it out, "Need help putting it on?"

"Yeah, I guess." Starsky slid one arm in the sleeve and was just struggling with Hutch to get the other sleeve around when Dobey poked his head in the door.

"Hutchinson, what's taking so long? This nurse out here is getting antsy," the captain whispered, then grinned. "Good evening, Starsky."

"Just a few seconds more, Capt'n." Starsky grinned, one of his spectacular, pre-shooting variety, suddenly realizing that some little ceremony was about to take place and he was the man of the hour.

"Since you've got the IV on the right arm, just let that side hang," Hutch instructed, then stood back to examine his creation. "You look semi-respectable."

"Thanks a lot, Hutch," Starsky groaned good-naturedly. He brushed one hand down the front of the slightly wrinkled uniform. There were two medals pinned on the front of his coat, too, the oldest one for best marksmanship at the Police Academy. "Let the show begin."

Dobey strode in puffed up with importance, followed by the police commissioner and a different mayor than the one whose child Hutch had saved. All three arranged themselves in a line beside the hospital bed.

His heart thumping wildly, Starsky chuckled because he suddenly had butterflies in his stomach. He sat up as straight as possible when the commissioner took a step forward, holding out a bronze plaque.

"Detective David Starsky, it is with extreme pride that I present to you with the Award of Valor and a Blue Star, Bay City Police Department's highest honor for one of its own who has been critically injured while in the performance of their sworn duty. You have shown tremendous bravery under fire, and in your fight for recovery, and are an inspiration to all of your brothers in blue." Commissioner Lansing nodded solemnly, handing over the plaque and then pinning a medal to the front of Starsky's blue coat.

Almost too overcome to speak, Starsky fought the tears that threatened to fall. He was too emotional these days, crying at the smallest things. But when he glanced over at Hutch, the blond was unabashedly crying, tears streaming out of his light blue eyes, and that did Starsky in. He succumbed to a few tears, trying to read the bronze plate through the moisture that filmed his eyes. Ultimately, he laid the heavy award on his bed and wiped furtively at his wet cheeks. "You don't know what this means t'me, sir. I'm proud to accept this, but I don't think I really deserved it. I didn't do anything."

"Just wait until the physical therapist starts in on you next week," Hutch teased, blowing his nose. "Then you'll feel like you deserve it."

Dobey pressed a tissue in Starsky's hand, then cleared his throat brusquely, obviously overcome himself. "I'm proud of you, son, and we expect you back in the squadroom in a couple of months, or there'll be hell to pay."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." In a daze, Starsky shook the hands of the three men. Dobey smiled at him with fatherly pride, and the commissioner pumped Starsky's hand so firmly he had to stifle a groan of pain from the enthusiastic greeting. The gray-haired mayor looked slightly green and only muttered a few words of congratulations before being the first one out the door. The other two followed quickly, only Dobey pausing to say so long "Y'think the mayor never been in a hospital room before?" Starsky chuckled, still looking in amazement at his awards.

"He did look really uncomfortable," Hutch agreed, bending down to retrieve something else in his gym bag.

"You got more surprises there? I don't know how much more my heart can stand," Starsky joked. The morphine was pulling at him again, weighing his eyelids with lead but he was determined to stay awake on this momentous occasion. "This is somethin' else."

"This one will go down a little more easily." Hutch popped up with a covered plate. He removed the silver dome with a slight flourish and passed the plate under Starsky's nose. "What's that smell like?"

"Linguini with clams," Starsky answered in a hushed tone. He grabbed at the plate, but Hutch outmaneuvered him, placing it on the table that swung over the bed and adding a napkin and fancy silverware on each side.

"Before you get too amazed at my culinary achievements, this was what was actually served at the awards ceremony tonight." Hutch sat down, watching his partner dig in to the meal.

"Hutch, this is great!" Starsky shoveled in a few bites of the creamy sauce and al dente noodles, but all too soon he felt the familiar sensation in his healing stomach. He had reached his maximum allotment for the time being, and pushed the plate away with regret. He only hoped that the delicious food would stay where it was meant to be and wouldn't make a return appearance later in the night. "You amaze me."

"I amaze you?" Hutch took off his uniform coat, slinging it over the back of the plastic visitor chair.

"Take mine, too," Starsky shrugged off the one sleeve as Hutch flipped the rest of the coat out from behind him. Wearing it, with the shiny new medal, filled Starsky with pride, but there was a sobering jolt of reality there, too. The several-year-old coat was too big on his thin frame, and only served to remind him how much he had to gain back before he could return to the force. It was scary, but the support of his colleagues and especially the blond man beside him, were a constant source of renewal. "Yeah, I'm constantly amazed that you sit here day after day, even when you've had to put in a full day on the streets and still manage to remember some addled request I made when I was high on too many painkillers."

"You deserve it." Hutch said honestly. "You should have been there at the awards dinner and when I said so to Dobey, he was only too happy to agree to this extra little ceremony."

"Wish I'd got to see 'em pin yours on." Starsky looked over at the plate of linguini with thoughts of another bite, but a churning in his belly kiboshed that idea.

"The commissioner nearly shoved the pin into my flesh." Hutch rubbed his chest with a grimace. "I was a little worried about having him pin yours on, in case he undid all Dr. Sandburg's good work."

"Nah, I can do that on my own. The nurses keep remindin' me not to stretch, not to bend, to brace myself when I cough... And the whole time I was walkin' today, I think April was imagining the stitches burstin' open and my lung just floppin' out onto the floor." Starsky's mouth widened in a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Well, just don't expect me to hang around to watch that," Hutch groaned. "But for my next trick, you got any other requests?"

"D'you know how to stuff veal?" Starsky asked sleepily, his eyes already closed.

FIN


End file.
